Alphabet Series
by Janieshi
Summary: My take on the ubiquitous Alphabet Challenge, FMA style. Chapter 6: F is for Formal Wear. "With all due respect, sir, you've got to be kidding me." Both subtle and not-so-subtle Royai in the mix, rated T for language.
1. A is for Acetone

**A is for Acetone**

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><p><em>Acetone ˈæsɪˌtəʊn/ noun - A colorless, volatile, extremely flammable liquid ketone that is widely used as a solvent, for example in nail-polish remover._**  
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><p>"You <em>really<em> shouldn't be doing that."

Rebecca jerked in surprise and then whirled to face the owner of the voice, who was leaning casually against the door frame.

"And why not? She said that I could!" Rebecca replied, with a proud toss of her head.

"Oh? And just when was that? Because she's been unconscious since before you arrived," Colonel Mustang retorted. "She only got out of surgery an hour ago, and the doctors already told me that the sedatives hadn't worn off yet." Rebecca gave him her prettiest pout, but Mustang was immune to such tactics, and merely raised an eyebrow. "Well?" he demanded.

"Oh, all right, fine," Rebecca admitted, looking away. "I used to beg her to let me do it back when we were in the Academy together, but since it was against regulations, she always turned me down."

Mustang frowned.

"So you waited until she was helpless, in no condition to give her consent, and then just went ahead and did what you liked?" he asked.

"Well geez, when you put it like that, it sounds creepy," Rebecca mumbled, frowning slightly.

"I ought to call security and have you thrown out on your ass," Mustang replied gruffly, crossing his arms.

"Aw come on, what's the big deal, anyway?" Rebecca pouted more genuinely this time. And then her face suddenly brightened. "Come on, I'll let you do the left one," she cajoled, offering him the tiny bottle with an enticing little shake. In spite of himself, Mustang's lips twitched.

"You're doing it all wrong, anyhow," he said, giving in at last and striding toward her. He waved her aside imperiously, and Rebecca cheerfully relinquished her place at the end of Riza's hospital bed. Dispassionately, Mustang examined Rebecca's handiwork.

"You spilled some on the sheet," he admonished her.

"Hey, only because somebody came sneaking up behind me," Rebecca grumbled, fumbling with the little case she'd left on the visitor's chair beside the bed. "And since she's unconscious and not exactly cooperative, the angle wasn't ideal to start with. Here," she added, and passed him a cotton ball soaked in acetone.

With firm, even strokes, Mustang fastidiously removed the smudged nail polish from his Lieutenant's middle toe.

"I can't believe she's slept through all this," he said, chancing a glance at Hawkeye's face.

"I guess they gave her the good drugs," Rebecca shrugged. "I've already trimmed and filed all her nails, rubbed oil into the cuticles, and given her a nice clear coat, and she hasn't so much as flinched." Mustang paused and shot her a suspicious glare.

"You've done all that in such a short time?" Rebecca shrugged with a little half-smile.

"What can I say? I'm a pro," she said.

"How'd you even get all this stuff together so quickly? Have you just been carrying it around every day in the hopes that she'd suddenly ask you for a pedicure?" he asked. Rebecca grinned a little wickedly, and Mustang shook his head. "Never mind, I don't think I want to know. So what other colors did you bring? This blue one's far too flashy to suit our Lieutenant," he added, gently adjusting Hawkeye's foot in his hand so that he could rub the garish polish off of her other nails as well. Rebecca snorted.

"Spoilsport. Here," she said, dumping out the bag. Four other bottles rolled onto the crisp white hospital sheets, and Mustang frowned over them for a moment before selecting a deep, rich red. "Going for the classic look, huh? Excellent choice," she added.

"Classics are classics for a reason. Although I'm sure this hideous teal blue is 'in' this season," he said absently.

"Naughty Nautical," Rebecca supplied.

"Beg pardon?" Mustang said, raising his eyes. Rebecca grinned.

"The color. It's called Naughty Nautical."

"Ugh, really?" he replied, grimacing faintly as he returned to his task.

"Yep! And yes, it's the season's hottest color right now," she explained.

"Be that as it may, I still think it's too much for someone who doesn't normally wear nail lacquer."

"What, you think she'll be less likely to strangle us both if she likes the color?" Rebecca asked, amused.

"One can only hope. Although she'd never admit she liked the color, even under torture," he returned, chuckling. Rebecca just grinned and sat back to watch him work.

Mustang applied himself to his task with the same single-minded focus he normally reserved for avoiding paperwork and flirting with secretaries in short skirts. Oddly enough, he seemed to know his way around a bottle of nail lacquer.

"You know," Rebecca said, after watching him quietly for a few moments. "You're suspiciously good at this." Mustang blew lightly on the wet polish before answering her.

"I had eight foster sisters growing up," he explained. "They had me fully trained in the mysterious feminine art of the mani-pedi before I'd hit puberty. And if you share that information with anyone else, ever, I'll tell Major Armstrong that you're harboring a secret desire is to bear his offspring, due to a fervent wish to ensure the continuation of the glorious Armstrong family line for the benefit of future generations," he added, nonchalantly. Rebecca blanched.

"You wouldn't!" she cried. Mustang shrugged.

"Only one way to find out, isn't there?"

"All right, all right! I'll swear secrecy to my grave or whatever. Cripes, and I thought Riza was good at threats," she mumbled.

"Who do you think I learned that one from?" Mustang asked, grinning. "Here, your turn," he added, passing her the bottle.

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><p>Mustang had just put the finishing touches on the clear top coat when the Lieutenant finally stirred.<p>

"Where'm I?" she slurred softly. Mustang bit back a grin. Hawkeye was always so adorably confused when she'd been drugged, whether it was pain pills or anesthesia.

"You're in the hospital, dearest," Rebecca spoke up, patting her friend's hand. "You had to have your appendix out, remember? Sharp abdominal pains? Collapsed suddenly in the middle of the office? Scared the crap out of everyone there?"

"Huh. Nope, don't remember," she replied, rubbing her eyes like a sleepy toddler.

A nurse came in, then, effectively distracting everyone as she asked questions and noted down vitals on Hawkeye's chart. Rebecca took the opportunity to sweep the various implements and bottles back into the cosmetic bag unnoticed. Mustang stayed sitting where he was at the end of the bed, somehow managing to look as though he belonged there.

"How're you feeling, Lieutenant?" Mustang asked when the nurse finally bustled away again.

"Well, my stomach kinda hurts. And my feet are cold," she complained, wriggling her toes. And then her eyes narrowed and suddenly became more alert. "_Why_ are my feet cold?" she demanded, looking from Mustang to Catalina accusingly. Mustang arranged what he hoped was an innocent expression on his face and quickly flipped the blanket back over Hawkeye's exposed feet.

"There we go, problem solved!" Rebecca said, shifting to hide the cosmetic bag behind her in the visitor's chair she'd claimed.

"Rebecca, I swear to god, if you've just painted my nails 'Roarrrange' or 'Golden Goddess' again, I'll…I'll do something horrible to you," she said, craning her neck to see her feet.

"Really, that's the best you can do?" Rebecca retorted. "Guess they gave you even better drugs than I thought, if you can't even manage a proper threat."

"Shush, you. Everything's still sorta foggy. I'm sure I'll think of something, though, don't you worry," Hawkeye said. Her eyelids were beginning to droop. Rebecca and Mustang exchanged looks. And then Rebecca grinned evilly.

"Well, as it happens, I wasn't the one who painted your toes, so you're threatening the wrong person." Hawkeye blinked a few times and then turned a perplexed look on her commanding officer.

"Et tu, Domine?" she murmured drowsily. And then her eyes slowly drifted closed again.

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><p>By the time she'd regained consciousness, Rebecca had gone, and there were several vases full of flowers sitting on the bedside table. Mustang was absently rearranging a sprig of baby's breath in a bouquet of soft yellow roses, his back to her. Hawkeye carefully edged her foot loose from the blankets, not entirely sure whether she'd been dreaming or not.<p>

At the sight of the pretty red polish, she sighed. Mustang chuckled and turned to face her.

"I wondered how long it would take you to check, once you'd regained consciousness," he said, smiling.

"She's done this to me every time I've ended up in the hospital," Hawkeye explained softly, studying her scarlet toes. "I'm pretty sure she picks the most outrageous colors she can find just to annoy me."

"Ah, that explains the eye-searing blue and the rather alarming shade of pink she had with her," Mustang said as he sank into the visitor's chair.

"Red is far too tame for her taste, it must have had a ridiculous name for her to have picked it up. Did she happen to tell you what it was called?" Hawkeye asked. Mustang's smile turned coy.

"True Love's Flame," he said. "I thought it was rather appropriate, myself."

"I'll keep that in mind, sir, the next time you find yourself laid up in the hospital and I've got time on my hands," Hawkeye said serenely.

Mustang's face paled.

"I hope you'll remember, Lieutenant, that without my intervention, your nails would have been defaced with something called 'Naughty Nautical,'" he said, somewhat nervously. "I chose the least offensive alternative!"

"I'll take it under advisement, sir," she replied, hiding a smirk.

After all, he _had_ done a pretty nice job.

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><p><strong>A.N. So...I meant to write a one-shot, but it appears I've started myself an alphabet challenge in the process. (Which will be updated very, VERY sporadically. I am accepting prompts for upcoming letters, though, so if you have a word you'd like to see me tackle, feel free to PM me!)<strong>

**This chapter is dedicated to ssadropout, who wanted to see a story about Roy painting Riza's toenails. Hope you enjoyed it, my dear! :D**

**xoxo Janie**


	2. B is for Bruise

**B is for Bruise**

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><p><em>Bruise bruːz/noun - injury to underlying tissues or bone in which the skin is unbroken, often characterized by ruptured blood vessels and discolorations; a contusion._

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><p>First Lieutenant Hawkeye came to an abrupt halt at the head of the marble steps outside of Eastern Command and sighed heavily. Even as she looked up at the sky, thunder rumbled in the distance. Of all the days for an unexpected rain storm to hit East City, it <em>would<em> be the one when she was obliged to wear her dress uniform.

Normally Hawkeye refused to wear skirts while on duty, but the knee length pencil skirt was a part of the women's Class A uniform. And some big-shot Three-Star General in from Central Command had insisted that everyone, from Lieutenant General Grumman right down to the lowliest private, wear their Class A's for the duration of his visit.

To make matters worse, Hawkeye had been unable to find her practical sling-back pumps when she'd dressed in the morning, and so she was also wearing a pair of 12 cm stiletto heels.

Colonel Mustang, naturally, had been delighted. He'd only seen Hawkeye in this particular uniform twice, and the other had been during the ceremony for her promotion to First Lieutenant. The modest pencil skirt wasn't quite as short as he'd have liked, of course. But the stilettos were a nice bonus, and one took what one could get. (And one quickly learned not to get caught staring at one's subordinate's long, shapely legs—the woman was still armed, after all).

Fortunately, Hawkeye's shift had ended four minutes ago, which meant she could go home and change into comfortable clothing (and shoes). Unfortunately, it was still raining heavily. Arch pain aside, without the traction provided by the thick soles of her usual sensible, sturdy boots, navigating the wet stairs before her was suddenly a daunting challenge.

But she couldn't just stand under the overhang and grumble all day. Juggling her armful of files and her large black umbrella, Lieutenant Hawkeye stepped out into the rain. Slow and careful as her movements were, she might have made it safely down the long flight of slippery marble steps –if the heel of her shoe hadn't snapped.

As she pitched forward, a curse on her lips, a hand shot out and caught her right wrist.

She bit back a hiss of pain as the cold fingers gripped her arm just a little too tightly. Though she staggered a bit gracelessly, she managed to regain her precarious balance without falling face first down the remaining stairs—and perhaps more importantly, without dropping any of the important files she had clutched to her chest.

"You okay, Lieutenant?" asked a familiar voice.

Smiling, Hawkeye looked down at her savior, whose damp golden hair was starting to stick to his face. His automail hand was still clamped around her wrist with uncomfortable force, and his other had flown to her hip to steady her when she'd stumbled backwards after the initial catch.

"Yes, thank you, Edward," she replied, shifting her weight so that she wasn't leaning so heavily on him. "You've just saved me from a nasty fall."

Once he was certain that she'd regained her balance, Ed quickly removed his hands, flushing a little, and shrugged one shoulder.

"No biggie," he said nonchalantly. "Want me to fix that for you?" he added, gesturing to her broken heel. Hawkeye glanced down at her ruined shoe and grimaced.

"Thank you, but to be perfectly honest, I'm not sorry to see them go," she admitted. Good riddance to bad rubbish. "Did you happen to see where my umbrella ended up?' she added, frowning slightly and glancing from side to side. Ed frowned as well and turned toward the bottom of the long flight of steps, where Hawkeye's umbrella had fallen—or possibly been blown—after she'd dropped it.

Before Hawkeye could even voice the request, Ed bounded down the steps to retrieve it for her. Smiling softly, she took the opportunity to slip her feet out of the ruined heels. Ed returned just as she straightened up with the broken shoes dangling from her free hand. Realizing that she had no hands free to take it from him, he positioned the umbrella over her head, shielding her and her files from the worst of the rain.

"You're not gonna walk home barefoot, are you?" Ed asked, eyeing her feet. Hawkeye chuckled, understanding the brusque question for what it was: Edward expressing concern in his own awkward, teenage male sort of way.

"Goodness, no," she replied. "Fortunately, I have the Colonel's car today. It's parked close by; can I give you a lift anywhere?" Ed's face brightened a bit.

"Could you drop me at the hotel?" he asked.

"Yes, of course. Do you mind holding the umbrella a bit longer?" she said, and started down the remaining steps before Ed could reply. Trotting after her, he angled the umbrella to cover them both as best as he could.

Hawkeye was surprised and pleased when Edward followed her to the driver's side and continued to hold the umbrella over her while she opened the door. Once she was safely inside, he closed her door for her and took himself over to the passenger side. His chivalry was all the more sweet because he didn't even seem aware that he was doing it.

"Where's Alphonse today?" Hawkeye asked as she started the engine. Ed didn't answer right away, fumbling instead with the heating until he'd coaxed a warm blast of air out of the vents.

"I left him back at the hotel," he said finally. "With the weather like this...it's better if he's not walking around outside too much," he mumbled, seeming uncomfortable. Hawkeye simply nodded in understanding. The blood seal, of course. It would be vulnerable in all this rain.

"I see," she said simply. They rode in companionable silence until she pulled up to the curb outside of the hotel.

"Thanks," Ed said, and reached for the door handle. "Hey...Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

"Yes?"

"Does Colonel Bastard really have a meeting tonight? Cuz, he said he'd have an assignment for me by the end of the week, but when I went to see him earlier he totally blew me off. He told me he was running late for a meeting, but he was all dressed up like he was going out on a date or something," Edward babbled all in a rush. "I-I just thought maybe you'd know," he went on, staring down at his lap. "I mean, since you're his adjutant and all."

"Ah. Let me think," Hawkeye responded, biting back a smile. He was so adorably earnest. "Well, today's Thursday. He _does_ have a standing appointment with one of his informants every other Thursday evening," she mused. Mustang made a point to meet up with the women from his aunt's network regularly, whether they had information to swap or not. Tonight, Miranda and Rosalind were to introduce him to Madame's newest girl. Anne, she thought the name was. Lucy might be there too, if she could get away from work. "This particular informant is rather important to him," Hawkeye added. "He never cancels a meeting if he can possibly help it."

"Oh. Okay," Ed said, slumping. "I thought maybe –well, never mind, then. I, uh, I guess I'll see you tomorrow. G'night, Lieutenant."

"Goodnight, Edward," she replied, fondly, as he scrambled out of the car. After he'd closed the car door, he gave her a jaunty little wave without looking back. Hawkeye waited until he'd disappeared into the hotel's lobby. Gently, she rolled up her sleeve.

There were five faint red marks on her forearm, the exact shape and size of a teenage boy's fingers and thumb. They'd be purple by morning. Rubbing absently at the marks with her opposite hand, Hawkeye hoped no one would notice them over the next few days. Edward would be mortified if he ever learned that he'd hurt her.

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><p><em>The following morning<em>

"Sir, the courier just brought –oh, forgive me," Hawkeye said, stopping short at the threshold to Mustang's office. "I didn't realize you were still here, Edward." The teen raised a hand in greeting. Hawkeye smiled at him and gave Mustang a perfunctory little salute. She would have backed out of the office again, but her sharp-eyed colonel stopped her in her tracks.

"What's that on your arm, Lieutenant?" he asked, frowning. His eyes were focused on her injured wrist.

Hawkeye stiffened, and then deliberately relaxed. She could feel a pair of suspicious golden eyes on her face as she surreptitiously adjusted her sleeve back down over the white bandage that had drawn Mustang's attention.

"You mean my wristwatch, sir?" she said innocently, even as she narrowed her eyes warningly at her commanding officer.

"But you don't wear a—oh, I see. My mistake, Lieutenant. I'm sorry; you were saying something about a courier?"

"I was just handed a report that I needed to go over with you, sir. But it's not urgent; I can come back later."

"No, it's all right, we were just finishing up. Weren't we, pipsqueak?"

"Whatever you say, idiot colonel," Edward said, distractedly. His attention had drifted back to a scrap of paper clutched in his left hand. Mustang's contacts must have had something good this time, Hawkeye thought with amusement. Otherwise Edward would never have allowed the short joke to pass without comment.

"You're dismissed, Fullmetal," Mustang added, already holding out his hand for the file in Hawkeye's possession. The teen snorted softly, but bounced to his feet.

"Gee, thanks, _sir_," Ed said sarcastically. "Al and I will be on the next train outta here. See ya in a few weeks," he added, heading for the door.

As he passed Hawkeye, Ed cast a fleeting glance at her feet, which were clad today in her usual combat boots. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of approval and darted from the office, slamming the door behind him. Hawkeye smiled.

Her commanding officer, however, was less than amused.

"You wanna tell me what the hell that was about, Lieutenant?" he said, coolly. Hawkeye's smile quickly faded.

"It's a long story, sir," she evaded.

"I've got time," he countered. When she didn't reply right away, he sighed and looked down at the file she'd brought him. "Fine. Could you hand me a pen, please, Lieutenant?"

Hawkeye plucked a pen from the corner of his desk, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Since Mustang made no effort to reach for it, she stepped around his desk, leaned over him, and placed the pen on his upturned palm. But before she could move away again, he turned in his chair and caught hold of her sleeve.

Though she frowned, Hawkeye didn't pull away or protest when Mustang rolled her sleeve up. He examined the bandage wrapped around her wrist for a moment, and then carefully began to unwind it. As the last edge fell away, revealing the livid purple bruises, he sucked in a sharp breath.

"Give me a name," he managed, in a voice tight with cold, barely contained fury.

"Sir?" Hawkeye said, confused. Mustang's eyes were still fixed on the contusions on her arm.

"A _name_, Lieutenant," he repeated, as he gently brushed his thumb over one of the ugly purple marks marring her otherwise flawless skin.

"Sir, you don't understand," Hawkeye started to explain. Mustang lifted his eyes to meet hers. The promise of violence in his gaze sent a shiver down her spine, though she knew it wasn't directed at her.

"I _understand_ that someone laid his hands on you," he growled. "I'd like to have a little _discussion_ with him."

"Honestly, it was an accident; he didn't intend to hurt me," Hawkeye said calmly. She realized she'd said exactly the wrong thing when Mustang barked out a bitter, mirthless laugh.

"You're making excuses for him, now? You've got to be fucking kidding me," he snapped. "What next, Hawkeye? Are you gonna come in here one day with a black eye and try and tell me you walked into a door?"

"For heaven's sake, calm down!" she hissed, glancing at the office door. "What if he hears you?"

"What?! You mean, it was someone _here_—?" Mustang leapt to his feet with an inarticulate snarl. He would have stormed out to the office and probably immolated his entire team had Hawkeye not resorted to violence. Moving quickly, she blocked his path to the door, planting her feet and mentally bracing herself. And then she slapped him as hard as she could.

Beyond shocked, Mustang staggered back and raised a hand to his cheek. Hawkeye shook her stinging hand a little.

"I thought I asked you to calm down, sir," she managed through clenched teeth.

"You just _hit_ me," he said incredulously.

"Yes, well," she shrugged, unconcerned. "I rather like my teammates, and you were about to go on some sort of testosterone-fueled rampage in their midst, without a good reason."

"But—!" Mustang started to protest. Hawkeye stared him down.

"While I appreciate the sentiment, sir, you are misunderstanding a great deal, here. Will you please allow me to explain?" she asked, raising a brow. Cowed, Mustang slunk back to his chair.

"Please proceed," he said. "I'm all ears."

"Edward was the one who bruised my wrist," she admitted, softly. Mustang's eyes flashed, but he didn't interrupt. "He did it to prevent me from falling head over heels down an entire flight of wet marble stairs," she went on. "I slipped, simple as that. I might have broken my neck if he hadn't reacted as quickly as he did."

"Oh."

"Yes. _Oh_," she repeated. "I know how bad they look. And I covered them with the bandage to avoid having to explain where they came from, in case it ever got back to him. I'd rather cut off my own arm than let that child know his automail hand gripped my arm just a shade too tightly when he risked himself for my sake."

Mustang was silent for a long moment.

"Forgive me, Lieutenant," he finally said. "I…appear to have jumped to a completely ridiculous conclusion." Hawkeye merely raised an eyebrow, waiting. "I behaved like a complete fool," Mustang tried next. "I was an ass. I—I should be dragged naked through the streets in a barrel lined with broken glass!" he cried.

Hawkeye's lips twitched and Mustang slumped back into his seat with relief. If she was laughing at him, it meant she'd already forgiven him.

Hawkeye reached across the desk for the discarded bandage and handed it to Mustang. He blinked for a moment, but smiled when she held out her arm expectantly. As he gently re-wound the bandage for her, she eyed the red mark on his cheek. It would fade before anyone else saw him, she thought.

"I really am sorry," he said, avoiding her eyes. "But the idea of someone putting his hands on you like that…the thought of anyone causing pain to one of my precious subordinates…" he trailed off.

"I know, sir," she replied gently. "AS I said, I appreciate the sentiment. Abuse of that sort is no joke. But please remember this: I know exactly where to go should I require assistance of any kind in dealing with an assault. If I needed your help, I would ask." Mustang raised his eyes to hers at last.

"Promise?" he asked, plaintively. She smiled.

"I promise."

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><p><strong>A.N. Thank you so much, everyone, for all the lovely reviews and excellent suggestions for upcoming chapters!<strong>

**Credit for this chapter goes to Coco007. Her original prompt included _actual_ walking into a door (which I have totally done - and had the bruises to prove it), but I like to think Hawkeye isn't quite such a klutz as I am. And I can never resist Hawkeye-Ed friendshippy interaction. I hope you like it anyway, Coco!**

**xoxo Janie**


	3. C is for Cross-Dressing

**C is for Cross-Dressing**

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><p><em>Cross-dressing krôsˈdres-iŋ / gerund- the act or practice of wearing clothing designed for the opposite sex._

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><p>It was a cold, clear fall morning. The sun shone weakly on the mountain pass as a covered wagon came lumbering along the road, pulled by a pair of unremarkable chestnuts. A blond man in a wide-brimmed straw hat held the reins. A woman, presumably his wife, sat on the seat right beside him, wearing a long cotton dress and an ugly flowered bonnet that concealed her face.<p>

Just as the wagon came around the final bend, five armed horsemen burst from their hiding places in the surrounding woods. As the driver tried to calm his frightened team, the men on horseback drew their weapons and blocked the road.

"Beggin' your pardon for interrupting your morning drive, folks," said one man silkily. He appeared to be the leader of the small gang. "But I do believe you're carryin' something of mine."

"Nothing in this wagon belongs to you!" the driver of the wagon retorted. Though his words were defiant, his voice quavered a little. His wife said nothing, just shifted her weight and kept her head down. The bandits laughed.

"Well, now, that doesn't seem very friendly," the gang leader chortled.

"Did you think we wouldn't notice that you'd changed the route? Or that you hadn't given us our cut?" said another of the bandits.

"Now, since you've made us come a-lookin' for you," the leader continued. "Not only will we takin' our usual share, but we'll also be takin' away everything else you've got in that wagon. And _then_," he added, leering. "I think maybe you're gonna give me a little one-on-one time with the missus."

"Oh, I think you might want to reconsider that," the driver said in a changed voice. With one hand, he reached up to push his straw hat back from his face. "My little woman here's a powerfully ugly creature."

The woman turned to her husband and swatted his arm.

"How can you say that, darling!" 'she' said in a distinctly male voice. "How can you shame me in front of all these people?"

"Hey, if I could make you prettier, I would," the driver said with a shrug.

"You brute! You are not the man I married!" his 'wife' said, finally pulling the ugly bonnet off his head. As his face was revealed, one of the bandits gasped. He recognized that man...that face!

"Boss," he hissed urgently. "That man, in the dress, that's..."

And then suddenly the blond driver had a gun in each hand, and the black-haired man in the dress was pulling on a pair of white gloves and smirking.

"You're all under arrest, obviously," he said, holding up a silver watch.

"State alchemist?" one of the bandits gasped.

"That's right. And by order of the Fuhrer, you're under arrest for extortion and grand theft and larceny and whatever else the warrant said. I didn't actually read the whole thing. Now, you can come nice and quiet, without any trouble, or—"

"Take 'em!" the bandit leader cried, raising his gun.

But before any of his men could react, a blonde woman leaned around the back of the wagon and shot the leader in the wrist. The man screamed and dropped his weapon, clutching his bleeding arm.

"Or we can resort to bloodshed," the man in the dress finished nonchalantly. "That was just a warning shot, gentlemen. I can assure you, the Lieutenant here can and will shoot all five of you dead before you can even _think_ about drawing your weapons. You may want to reevaluate your plans."

The four uninjured men glanced at each other. Their leader moaned pitifully, cradling his wrist to his chest.

"Please don't bother running away," the woman added, a single pistol in her hands. The blond driver still had _his_ guns trained on the group as well, and the man in the dress just smirked down at them. "My accuracy drops significantly when the targets are moving. You may end up permanently disfigured rather than merely dead."

"She shot a man in the jaw once. Lost the lower mandible, but lived long enough to serve his fifteen years," the driver said, grinning. "Not a pretty sight. Had to wear a mask all the time cuz he scared the other prisoners."

As one, the gang of bandits dropped their weapons.

"Excellent. Havoc, would you do the honors? Hawkeye and I will watch your back," the man in the dress said, casually snapping his fingers. Instantaneously, a ball of fire exploded at the feet of the leader, who had been inching his boot toward his fallen gun.

"Sure thing, Colonel Mustang," Havoc said, swinging himself down from the wagon and striding forward with a pair of handcuffs.

The trip back down the mountain was uneventful, especially because they'd left Lieutenant Hawkeye in the back of the wagon to stand guard over the prisoners. The transfer of custody went smoothly as well, although more than a few of the soldiers stared at the oddly-dressed Colonel as he passed.

"Explain to me again why Lieutenant Hawkeye wasn't in the dress?" Mustang's counterpart asked. A lean, dark haired woman in her thirties, Colonel Fox was obviously trying to keep a straight face as she took in the younger man's clothing.

"Tactics!" Mustang explained, unashamed. "She's my best shot. Helluva sniper; you should see her in action. Anyway, I needed her in the back, unobserved and with an unobstructed viewpoint, so she could keep all of them in her sights in case they tried anything. Which they did." Colonel Fox dipped her head in acknowledgement.

"Can't argue with results," she said lightly. Probably best not to argue with a State Alchemist, anyway, she decided. Those guys were all a little…quirky.

Behind them, the sullen bandits watched the exchange from behind the bars of the holding cell.

"Sure he just doesn't like cross-dressing?" one of the prisoners whispered to another. "I mean, he didn't _have_ to be wearing a dress at all…we didn't even _know_ the man's wife came along on his delivery routes."

The two prisoners turned to look at the Colonel, who had moved to stand beside the terrifying blonde sniper.

"I can't see why you don't like wearing them, Lieutenant," he was saying, smoothing a hand down the skirt of his dress. "There's this whole…air flow. It's kinda nice!"

"Just…please go put on some pants, sir," she replied wearily.

As the Colonel laughed, the two prisoners looked at each other again.

"Or maybe he's just bat-shit crazy," the second man suggested, just as Havoc passed by their cell. He grinned at them.

"Oh, you guys have _no_ idea."

* * *

><p><strong>A.N. Idea (and some of the dialogue) for this one blatantly stolen from the teaser of one of my favorite episodes of a way-too-short-lived sci-fi series. How many of you spotted it? Thanks for reading!<strong>

**xoxo Janie**


	4. D is for Dishabille

**D is for ****Dishabille**

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><p><em>Dishabille dɪsæˈbiːl/ noun - the state of being partly dressed; the state of being dressed in a careless, disheveled or disorderly manner._

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><p>Mustang's subordinates trudged wearily along the lamp-lit street, chatting amongst themselves.<p>

"Paranoid old man," Havoc was complaining. "Why does he even _need_ a round-the-clock protective detail? Does he really think there'll be people trying to kill him wherever he goes?"

"Oh, I dunno," Breda said. "I barely know him, and I'd kinda like to take a shot at him. I can only imagine the effect he must have on people who've gotta deal with him on a daily basis."

"It's not paranoia when they're _really_ out to get you," Falman added solemnly. The others laughed.

"I just feel bad for the guys who got stuck with the overnight shift," Fuery piped up, dragging his feet. "I'm exhausted just thinking about it."

"No, you're exhausted because you've just come off a twelve hour shift," Hawkeye corrected gently. "Most of which was spent on your feet. Besides, the men on the overnight shift are from the General's own team. They ought to be used to it by now."

"Ah, true," Fuery said a little sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I haven't eaten since noon," Havoc grumbled. "Anyone else starving?"

"Yes," Breda and Falman said in unison. Fuery nodded fervently.

"Lieutenant?" Havoc added, turning to include Hawkeye. She smiled but shook her head.

"The Colonel and I were luckier in that respect," she explained. "General Elliot had food brought in while they were finalizing the schedule for the rest of the week."

The ridiculously complicated and demanding schedule which had taken hours to hash out and driven Mustang into a teeth grinding, fist clenching fit of ill-temper. And those sandwiches had been quite some time ago, to be honest.

"Come with us anyway," Breda suggested. "Have a drink or something."

"Thanks, but I think I'd rather indulge in a hot bath," Hawkeye admitted. "You four go on ahead; I'll see you later."

They parted amiably at the next intersection, and Hawkeye made her way to the hotel alone.

Once back in her suite, Hawkeye did her customary security sweep, clearing each room systematically and flicking on lights as she went. Shrugging out of her uniform jacket, she took a moment to admire the view from her window before sitting down to unlace her boots. The city was actually quite pretty at night, and for just a second she regretted not going out to eat with the guys.

But it had been a long, hellish day, and she'd been fantasizing about a hot bath for hours, now.

Mostly it was just nice to think about something other than potential assassination plots targeting an ageing General who had too high an opinion of his own importance. Unfortunately, the man _did_ have some important connections. So when he had specifically requested Mustang's team for the protective detail assigned to him while he did some routine inspections in their jurisdiction, Grumman had been unable to refuse.

Falman had been right, though, when he'd implied that the General's paranoia wasn't completely unfounded. Apparently there had been a few nasty letters, death threats and the like, that had made the man fearful for his safety. Having spent most of the day in his presence, Hawkeye wouldn't have been surprised if it turned out that the threatening letters had been written by his own hand-picked team. He certainly had that effect on people.

Hawkeye shook her head with wry amusement as she draped her primary weapon holster over her jacket, which she'd already hung on one of the chairs beside the window. She let her hair loose as she made her way to the bathroom to get the water started. Hair clip, pants, and turtleneck were tossed unceremoniously on the bed as she passed, to be dealt with _after_ her bath. Clad only in her lingerie, Hawkeye absently brushed out her hair while she waited for the tub to fill.

She had just shut off the water tap when the fire alarm began to screech. Clapping her hands over her ears, she swore under her breath. Outside her door, she could already hear panicked voices and thundering feet filling the hallway. Swearing again, more viciously, Hawkeye paused only to snag her bathrobe from the hook on the back of the bathroom door before joining the mass exodus.

The street in front of the hotel rapidly filled with the displaced guests as well as curious passersby. Although no smoke was visible yet, the obnoxiously loud alarms continued to blare, and the collective chatter of the assembled crowd only added to the din. Hawkeye leaned against one of the ornate columns supporting the roof of the building next door to the hotel and rubbed her temples. Unfortunately, it didn't do a thing to stave off her rapidly building headache.

"Fancy meeting you here, Lieutenant," an amused voice said from her left. Hawkeye sighed. Beautiful. And now she'd never hear the end of it.

"Good evening, sir," she said wearily, turning to face her commanding officer. Mustang's eyes traveled rapidly up and down her figure, widening imperceptibly at the sight of her thin, silky bathrobe and bare legs.

"You're out of uniform, Hawkeye," he said gleefully, with a rakish grin.

"I'm also off-duty, sir," she retorted, fighting back a blush and crossing her arms over her chest defensively. She wasn't _indecent_. The robe fell to her knees. In an attempt to deflect her Colonel's attention, she asked: "I thought you were dining with General Elliot this evening?"

"I was, but he cancelled at the last minute," Mustang sighed. "Apparently, the chef at the restaurant he'd chosen gave him a strange look when we arrived. He was sure the man intended to poison him, so he caused a scene, and then we left. I _had_ hoped to catch up with the rest of you…but I must admit, I wasn't expecting _this_," he added, letting his eyes travel slowly across Hawkeye's body once more.

Heat pooled low in her belly. Though she tried to tell herself she was just unnerved by the intensity of his gaze, Hawkeye couldn't deny the little frisson of excitement that raced through her at the idea that he was enjoying the view. God, why did it have to be _him_? Had any of the other men in her team seen her dressed like this, she wouldn't have given it a second thought. Drawing the line between personal and professional was normally a simple matter, but with _Mustang_...nothing was ever simple with Mustang.

"I was just about to step into the bath when the alarms went off," she explained, trying to calm her racing heart.

"I see," he replied, smirking. He finally broke off his stare to survey the other pajama-clad people milling about nearby. "Well, you certainly aren't the only one _en déshabillé._"

"Thank goodness," Hawkeye answered sarcastically. "I wouldn't want to feel self-conscious." Mustang only chuckled.

"You've no reason to," he said. "It's a fetching ensemble. And that pale lavender color suits you quite nicely."

As Hawkeye considered whether it was worth informing him that the color was actually called periwinkle, a light breeze picked up. Involuntarily, she shivered. Mustang immediately shucked his suit jacket and made to drape it across her shoulders.

That small chivalrous impulse may very well have saved his life.

The gunshot barely made a sound over the noise of the crowd and the fire alarms, but the blood blooming on Mustang's arm was unmistakable.

"Gun!" Hawkeye shouted, her own weapon already in hand. "Down, everyone get down!"

Shielding Mustang as best as she could, Hawkeye quickly maneuvered them both behind the pillar they'd just been leaning against, and forced Mustang down on the ground with her free hand. Dimly, she registered his grunt of pain as two more shots pinged harmlessly against the concrete.

All around them, shocked and frightened civilians were running for cover, screaming. As Hawkeye cautiously peered around the pillar, another bullet struck bare inches from her face. But it was enough to tell her which direction to aim, and she leaned around the pillar again and fired three rapid shots. The gunfire stopped at once.

"Lieutenant!" someone yelled, from a position somewhere behind her.

"Breda, thank god," she whispered. "Are the others with you?" she called out.

"Affirmative!" came the reply.

"Take Havoc and Falman and go search the building opposite! Single shooter with what I assume is a high-powered rifle. Likely wounded, but he may have smaller arms on him as well as the rifle, so approach with extreme caution. And Fuery, I need you over here, the Colonel's been hit!"

"Yes ma'am!" she heard three voices cry, and then there were running footsteps.

"I'm all right," Mustang grumbled, just as Fuery skidded to a halt beside him. "It barely grazed my arm. I'm fine."

"He's right, ma'am, it's just a flesh wound," Fuery confirmed breathlessly. Hawkeye spared a glance over her shoulder to reassure herself.

"Glad to hear it," she said softly, overwhelmed with relief. She remained crouched low in a defensive position, listening with half an ear to Fuery's fussing over the superficial wound on his commander's arm. Thankfully, someone had finally shut off the damn alarms in the hotel, but shell-shocked civilians were still huddled in groups just inside the lobby, unsure whether they were safer indoors or out.

"I probably shouldn't be surprised that you found time to grab a weapon, but not your day clothes," Mustang observed after a moment.

"I have my priorities; you have yours," Hawkeye retorted, without looking at him. "And it turned out to be a wise choice, in my opinion."

"Oh, believe me, I'm not complaining," Mustang replied, admiring the excellent view of his Lieutenant's backside from his location on the ground behind her.

Confused, Fuery followed Mustang's gaze. And, suddenly realizing that he was inadvertently ogling his Lieutenant's rear end, he wisely decided to devote his attention to trying off the makeshift bandage he'd been applying.

Hawkeye held her position until she spotted Havoc trotting across the road towards them, Breda and Falman in his wake.

"Oi, how is he?" Havoc called out, once they were within earshot.

"Lucky," Hawkeye replied, rising to her feet as they drew nearer. "The bullet just grazed him." All three men relaxed, fractionally. And then they suddenly became aware of their Lieutenant's clothing. Or the lack thereof.

Hawkeye's bathrobe was still belted at the waist, but only just. The filmy material gaped open from neck to navel, exposing a tantalizing 'v' of creamy flesh and lacy pale pink lingerie. Standing there barefoot, with her slightly disheveled blonde hair falling loose over her shoulders, she honestly looked like she'd just stepped off the pages of some sort of gentlemen's magazine. The gun in her hand (and the empty holster strapped to her bare right thigh) only served to make the picture more interesting.

Fuery's innocence alone was spared - he hadn't dared to shift his attention away from Mustang's wound again, so long as the Lieutenant remained in front of them.

Falman coughed and quickly averted his eyes, blushing faintly and praying that no one would think to mention his eidetic memory.

Breda just shrugged and took it in stride. Their Lieutenant was a damn fine woman, and he'd always suspected she had a rockin' body under those unflattering uniforms. The only thing that really threw him was the pink – he'd have pegged her as a practical basic-black or classic-white kinda girl. But he respected her, both as his superior officer and as a friend, so he knew better than to comment.

Havoc, however, was incapable of such restraint. And he also wondered why he'd never noticed what a magnificent set of _assets_ Hawkeye had.

"Uh...Lieutenant?" he ventured, trying and failing not to stare.

Hawkeye rolled her eyes and absently re-secured her robe. (She was cringing with embarrassment on the inside, but she'd long since learned that the best way to prevent off-color jokes at her expense was to just brazen it out and act like there was nothing out of the ordinary happening).

"Yes, thank you, I'm well aware that I'm out of uniform," she said, affecting a bored tone of voice. "Put your eyes back in your head, please, Second Lieutenant. And report!"

"Er, yes, ma'am, sorry," Havoc stammered, as the others stifled their laughter (and secret groans of disappointment). "The uh, the subject was apprehended with no additional fire exchanged. You winged him in the shoulder, so we sent him off to be patched up. Before he passed out, he did admit that the alarms were a diversion, intended to flush his target out into the open. It seems Colonel Mustang was his primary objective, and not General Elliot," he added, glancing over at his boss.

"Who's with the prisoner now?" Mustang asked, frowning.

"We handed him over to some of the General's men. We ran into them on the way into the building," Falman explained.

"They'd heard the commotion and come to check it out, just like we did," Havoc said. "They offered to back us up, so we briefed them on the fly."

"Their major agreed to take custody of the suspect until we got further orders," Breda added.

"Good. I'll notify the General, then, and let _him_ deal with the headache," Mustang said, leaning his head back against the pillar. "He'll probably just be jealous that he wasn't the target after all. Good work, everyone. Go on and get some rest, now."

"Yes, sir," they chorused. But no one moved.

"Hawkeye, could you give me a hand up?" Mustang added, ignoring the hand Fuery had already extended to him.

Havoc and Breda exchanged an amused look. Hawkeye pursed her lips, but pulled him to his feet anyway. And then glared at him when his gaze drifted to her no-longer-visible cleavage.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she huffed, exasperated. "You all act as though you've never seen a woman's body before!"

Havoc, Falman and Breda had the grace to look ashamed of themselves. Fuery trembled, terrified. Mustang alone grinned at her.

"But we've never seen _yours_. Have we, Lieutenant?" he challenged.

His men were utterly horrified. A little 'eep!' escaped from Fuery's lips.

Hawkeye cocked one hip and flipped her loose blonde hair over one shoulder - a coy, feminine gesture that none of them had ever expected from her.

"Then I hope you boys got a really good look," she purred. "Because it might just be the last thing you'll ever see."

Her fingers twitched towards her gun. The men scattered.

"Falman, you lucky bastard," Mustang panted as they pounded up the stairs. "You've got a photographic memory, don't you?"

"Don't remind her!" Falman squeaked, whirling to be sure that the Lieutenant wasn't in pursuit "She'll kill me in my sleep!"

"Not a bad way to go, really," Havoc whispered to Breda, who nodded thoughtfully.

Hawkeye, alone now outside the hotel, leaned back against the pillar again and laughed. That ought to keep her boys quiet and well-behaved for a few weeks, at least.

"Idiots," she said fondly.

* * *

><p><strong>A.N. Something silly, as promised, to counteract the angst-and-tears bits from "Pistols," for those of you who are fans of both stories :D Everyone else, I hope you enjoyed the silliness anyway. As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated!<br>**

**xoxo Janieshi**


	5. E is for Exotic

**E is for Exotic**

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><p><em>Exoticɪɡˈzɒtɪk/ adjective- of foreign origin or character; not native; having a strange or bizarre allure, beauty, or quality._

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><p>The Sultanate of Ochinstan, a small but flourishing country, was located southeast of Amestris, tucked between the great nations of Xing and Aerugo. The harsh desert that had once been a part of the prosperous empire of ancient Xerxes formed the little country's northern border, and it had long been known as an integral hub of international trade. Trade which Amestris had become deeply interested in only recently, as it sought to establish peaceful relationships with all of its neighbors.<p>

As the only female in the group of Amestrian delegates, Lieutenant Hawkeye knew that she would be subjected to more than her fair share of scrutiny. She also knew that she would be obliged to alter her personal appearance if she wanted to participate in the trade negotiations at all, which was faintly irritating.

But they'd agreed to adhere to Ochinstani customs as a condition of their travel arrangements, which meant that Hawkeye's usual uniform wasn't an option. Women in Ochinstan dressed in long sweeping gowns, skirts or robes—pants were considered indecent, and bare legs were absolutely _not_ to be shown in public.

Unmarried women also wore veils across the lower half of their faces and sometimes covering their dark shining hair, ostensibly for the sake of feminine modesty. (Although Hawkeye had immediately noticed that the veils were mostly of translucent gauzy materials, and seemed designed to excite interest rather than to actually _conceal_ a woman's face from the impure gaze of any man not her husband or direct relation.)

And so upon their arrival, the Ochinstani officials sent to greet them had promptly whisked Lieutenant Hawkeye away from the rest of her party and placed her in the care of a cadre of female servants. Alarm quickly melted into amusement when the other Amestrians had realized that the servant women were loudly fussing over the state of Hawkeye's hair and travel-stained clothing.

The young women led her into a slightly smaller tent than the one that had been prepared for her countrymen. Once inside, they helped a distinctly uncomfortable Hawkeye bathe. Chattering to her in a mixture of Ochinstani and pidgin Amestrian, they scrubbed away the dust and sweat of her travels and seemed not to notice her embarrassment. As soon as they'd patted her dry and massaged perfumed oils into her clean pale skin, they arranged the disconcerted foreigner before a trio of mirrors and proceeded to present her with dozens upon dozens of traditional Ochinstani costumes.

After trying a number of them on (and admittedly, beginning to rather enjoy the candid exclamations of admiration from the young women assisting her), Hawkeye settled on a soft blue and white garment that seemed a bit less ostentatious than the others. The top was cut lower than she really liked, and she wondered how wearing pants could be considered more indecent than wearing sheer fabrics that clung to her curves and left her midriff bare. Even so, it really did look well on her, and she couldn't deny a slight feeling of self-satisfaction as she examined her reflection with a critical eye.

Although she would always prefer to wear trousers on duty, the thin silks and chiffons of the long skirts would be easy enough to tear if an emergency arose and she needed to move more freely. And the billowing folds of fabric flowing about her legs would allow her to conceal the weapons she normally wore openly. Then there was the added bonus that the fabric was far lighter than the woolen Amestrian uniform, which made the blazing sun much more tolerable.

When she emerged from the tent at last, Hawkeye was greeted by several enthusiastic wolf-whistles.

She'd expected some sort of obnoxious reaction to the exotic new garments, and she was actually a little bit flattered by their obvious approval. But still, she couldn't have her men taking liberties with a superior officer or allow them to set a precedent of commenting on her clothing. And so, with her very best 'don't-fuck-with-me' expression firmly in place, Hawkeye calmly reminded them that looks could be deceiving, and that she was in fact every bit as armed as usual.

Hawkeye couldn't quite suppress her smile when she caught sight of her colonel's face, though. It looked like he hadn't decided whether to be pleased by the revealing outfit, or annoyed that everyone else was able to admire it as well.

Her male teammates had also been provided with the means to bathe (although they were spared the invasive presence of chatty attendants). And though they had also been offered traditional clothing, none of them had really wanted to change into the loose trousers and ankle-length linen tunics that were the fashion for Ochinstani men. Every one of them had decided to retain their uniforms, choosing dignity over comfort.

Except for the colonel. After Hawkeye emerged clad in her new outfit, Colonel Mustang suddenly declared that it would be rude to reject the hospitality of their hosts and excused himself to change. Hawkeye suspected the heat had changed his mind (and she _was_ partially right).

And so she took her place at his side without even noticing how well they suited each other in their complimentary clothing.

* * *

><p>Although their delegation had only just arrived in the Sultanate of Ochinstan, there were endless greetings to be exchanged with the princes and emirs and viziers, and traditional ceremonies to be observed by each of the assembled parties before the trade negotiations could begin in earnest the following morning.<p>

Colonel Mustang and his team made quite the impression on the Ochinstani nobility. Mustang was charming and personable, and his flawless grace made up for the one or two minor stumbles of his men. The varied princes and viziers were indulgent and chose to smile benevolently when errors in speech or ceremony were made, rather than take offence.

The High Prince made much of his guests that first day, and complimented Lieutenant Hawkeye shamelessly on how becoming she looked in their southern dress. She bore it as gracefully as any high blooded princess, unaware that the light flush of embarrassment on her cheeks only enhanced her beauty. She even accepted the offer of more clothing as a gift after the prince insisted upon it three times, as per his country's custom - to refuse a fourth time would be unforgivably rude, and to accept any earlier would be considered grasping and greedy.

Afterwards, the Amestrians took their time walking back to their encampment, winding through the city and taking in the local color on their way. The men were wilting, and they all sheepishly agreed to wear the tunics the next day rather than suffer through another meeting in their heavy dress blues. Giddy from the heat (and from the ceremonial goblets of wine they had shared with their hosts) no one noticed the attention that Hawkeye had drawn.

In fact, none of the delegates had even considered that Hawkeye's position was a precarious one. So later, when she decided to go for a stroll in the cool twilight, no one thought of offering to accompany her or of stopping her from going off on her own.

And so Hawkeye meandered alone through a pretty garden in what seemed to be a sort of public park. It was quite deserted at that time of the evening, for which she was grateful—a little bit of peace and quiet was just what she wanted after all the formalities of the day. Moving slowly through the cool green shadows, she breathed in the heady perfume of flowering vines growing wild near a large, clear pool of water. A fresh water spring, she remembered, that the town had once depended upon as the sole source of water before they'd begun building wells that drew from the same source. It was a lovely spot, and she lingered there far longer than she meant to.

It wasn't until she heard twigs breaking on the path behind her that she even considered the danger of her circumstances—an admittedly pretty, unprotected foreigner, separated from her comrades. An unmarried woman wandering alone at night, in a country where women were practically considered property of their husbands and fathers.

"Hello? Is someone there?" she called out, hoping for the answering voice of one of her comrades. She was sorely disappointed to hear the deep, oily voice of a stranger instead.

"It is only this lowly servant of a great household. Pray forgive one who dares to approach you unannounced and unlooked for, O ethereal vision with a voice more melodious than a thousand nightingales," the strange voice said.

Momentarily at a loss, Hawkeye recalled that similar flowery language, which sounded so odd to her ears, was often used by the Ochinstani ambassadors when they were being extremely polite. She tried to respond in a similar vein.

"I ask your pardon, nameless friend, if my presence here has caused any offence. Have I strayed where I ought not?" As she spoke, she saw three...no, five shadows moving to surround her. She carefully reached for the weapon concealed at the small of her back.

"Nay, for a beautiful woman is more welcome in a garden than a warm spring rain after a long winter drought, and her loveliness brings pleasure to all who have good fortune enough to meet her. But I am remiss. Your servant mostly humbly begs pardon for addressing you so abruptly, but he trusts that you will excuse him once you learn the grave importance of his errand. Are you or are you not the Lady Hawkeye, O shimmering star in the desert sky?"

"I am." She supposed, anyway. _Lady_ Hawkeye? That was a new one. "Upon what errand have you been sent, good sir? And how is it that you call me by my name and yet have not shown yourselves to me in the darkness?"

"Please excuse this humblest of servants, thrice honored lady of a noble household. You must place yourself in the tender care of myself and my brethren and follow where we lead you."

"Is that so?" Hawkeye replied, bristling. "And if I am not inclined to follow?" She had stopped reaching for weapons the moment she realized how many of them surrounded her. If there were six of them, she'd likely be overpowered before she could disable them all.

"By your accent, O moonlit lily-of-the-valley, do I deduce correctly that you are a guest in our country?"

"Yes, this is true. I am a guest here," she replied. No point in lying. Her pale skin and blonde hair were clearly visible through the sheer veil across her face.

"Ah. Then I should inform you, O lustrous pearl whose beauty illuminates even the darkest night, that our master has great influence with the ruler of this land. It would be very embarrassing for a fuss to be made over such a simple request as this, but rest assured he will smooth things over with your good people and your illustrious government if it becomes necessary. Please, won't you come with us quietly?"

"Am I allowed to know where it is you wish to lead me?" she said, deliberately ignoring the thinly veiled threat.

She could only assume that 'great influence' referred to rich coffers and that 'smooth things over' meant bribery. So even if she tried to fight them off, her hosts would likely be paid off to look the other way rather than come to her aid.

"Our master wishes to speak with you in the luxury of his own home, regarding matters of the deepest importance. He had asked that we accompany you thither once we had found you, O fair and fragile blossom. And we are loath to disobey."

"May I return first to my own party and share with them this request of your master? I do not wish to cause any undue alarm with a sudden disappearance," she tried next, using a thinly veiled warning of her own: I am not alone, and people will be looking for me.

"Once we have safely arrived at our destination, O wayward jewel of magnificent loveliness, a messenger shall be sent at once to apprise them of your whereabouts."

Thinking quickly, Hawkeye couldn't see any way around it. Though she was physically capable of defending herself and fighting her way free to return to her comrades, it was true that she was not a citizen of this country. She doubted that they would punish her in a criminal court, but if she wasn't careful, her actions might derail the ongoing trade negotiations, which were extremely important for the future of a peaceful Amestris. Hopefully the boys would come to look for her sooner rather than later. And if worse came to worse, she could always break free when there were fewer guards surrounding her.

"If you will give me such assurance, then it would be most discourteous of me to refuse your master's offer of hospitality any further," she said softly. After all, they couldn't know how many weapons she had, and no one was asking her to disarm. The six men materialized out of the darkness, positioned themselves around her, and quickly led her away.

* * *

><p>Hawkeye was surprised when they did, in fact, lead her to a very well-populated area, and a very wealthy section of the city at that. She'd been expecting to be held hostage, in exchange for some sort of concession in their negotiations here. Perhaps these men were telling the truth after all? But then…why all the secrecy? Certainly, they were approaching a very grand mansion. And no one had treated her ill. Aside from the fact that she had not wanted to go with them in the first place, they were being quite polite and kind to her.<p>

Hawkeye's greatest regret was that she wouldn't be able to see her commander's reaction to the message informing him that she was being entertained by some mysterious stranger.

And indeed, when the messenger delivered his letter to Mustang, his whole party flew into an uproar. Their minder, frowning, assured them that the man who had sent the message was from a good family, and well known for being an honorable man. But he, too, was very upset that one of their delegates had been, in essence, kidnapped. The fury emanating from the handsome Colonel promised an international incident if the missing woman was not found at once and returned to the protection of her party.

Wringing his hands, the man offered to inform the High Prince of their dilemma, and rashly promised them any aid they should deem necessary. Colonel Mustang, visibly restraining his very great anger, asked him to inform the High Prince that they'd be paying a visit to one of his subjects. The man scurried off in terror as Mustang's men strode into the city.

As shocked as they were to be greeted at the entrance of a grand estate, not a single one of the group was prepared for the sight that awaited them in the main chamber.

Perched on an ornately carved throne of ivory as though she belonged there, Lieutenant Hawkeye looked positively regal. They noticed immediately that she had changed into an even more elaborate costume than the one their hosts had provided, complete with ropes of pearls and rubies draped around her neck and golden bracelets and anklets jingling cheerfully with her every movement.

Relying on Mustang's quick comprehension and tact, Hawkeye rose and glided gracefully down the steps of her dais before throwing herself into his arms. Which, naturally, opened for her without hesitation.

"Brother," she breathed against his neck. "I hope you weren't terribly worried when I did not return as planned?"

"I was exceedingly worried, beloved _sister,_" he replied smoothly.

Hawkeye smiled against his chest, pleased and proud that he'd caught on so easily. Behind him, the others wiped their shock from their faces and bit their tongues. Let it not be said that Mustang's men were slow on the uptake.

"My esteemed host sent a message as soon as he was able," she explained, shifting in his embrace so that she could look up at him.

"I confess I hardly knew what to think when I received it," he replied carefully. "But you look well; may I assume you are unharmed?" At this last question, Mustang turned his eyes to the nobleman who had been kneeling at the foot of the throne Hawkeye had been sitting upon. "It seems we have much to discuss, my friend," he added.

The nobleman rose gracefully to his feet, looking between them with an expression of doubt.

"_This _man is your elder brother, O paragon of perfection?"

"Indeed," Hawkeye said, unflinchingly.

She had turned in Mustang's arms without moving away from him, so that she was tucked against his side protectively. His hand rested securely on her hip, and her arms were still around his neck. In spite of the difference in their coloring, they had a similarity of bearing and expression born of the many years of close friendship between them, and they were obviously very comfortable in such an embrace.

"My sweet Riza is very precious to me, though we were born of different mothers," Mustang said, truthfully enough. "I thank you for looking after her on my behalf, sir."

"I was captivated by her beauty, most honored guest, and I could not rest easy when I saw that she had wandered away from her party," the nobleman said benevolently, as though he had not practically kidnapped her. "Though, I am much surprised to find that she is neither so alone nor as friendless as she appeared to be. I was under the impression that the young lady was merely one of many soldiers under your command?"

Meaning that he thought he could whisk her away to seduce her, or worse, without facing any serious consequences, Mustang realized. Any objections a superior officer might raise could presumably be swept under the rug with the right remuneration, in this man's world. Mustang bit back a scathing retort, remembering that they were not out of the woods yet.

"As you must have noticed, Riza is a very intelligent woman, and a most loyal subordinate," Mustang said with a charming smile. "Any man in my position might find it desirable that none but his closest friends and allies should know the true nature of the relationship between him and a much-beloved sibling, lest the affection he held for her be used against him."

This seemed to interest the nobleman greatly. He glanced around at the other Amestrians.

"And these, your...servants? They are trustworthy men?" he asked.

"These are my comrades," Mustang corrected firmly. "I trust them with my life. What's more, I trust them with _her_ life."

"Ah, this is faith indeed," the man agreed, apparently pleased. "It warms my heart to know that even in the barbarian countries of the North, there are men of such honor and courage as those." His eyes flicked between them again. "I must confess, it pleases me to be able to meet you in person. I had hoped to discuss terms of a marriage treaty with your lovely sister." Mustang's grip on Hawkeye's waist tightened: the only outward sign of his anger.

"This is not possible, I am afraid," he replied smoothly, in a tone tinged with regret. "You see, my dearest one is already promised in marriage, and to someone I cannot afford to offend. She is the delight of his eyes and he would not willingly be parted from her. On any account."

"I am deeply disappointed to find that it is so," the other man said, casting another longing look at her. "Indeed, the man who is able to lay claim to such a rare and precious jewel is to be much envied."

Turning again to Hawkeye, he said: "O unattainable sultana and fair thief of my heart, I pray that you would remember me fondly when once you are gone from my land. If ever you wish to dissolve the alliance with your redoubtable affianced, know that a warm welcome will always await you beneath this roof."

"Many thanks, O kind and gracious host," she replied, blushing slightly. "If you will allow me to change out of these rich clothes, we will at once take our leave and return to our party."

"Indeed, no, my sweet and unattainable dream. You must not leave behind even a hair pin. Let them be remembrances of one whose heart you have captivated."

"Oh, but I cannot accept such a princely gift," she protested, gesturing to the costly jewels draped around her neck. He insisted twice more, until she was not able to refuse without deeply offending him. Resigned, she accepted, allowed him to kiss her hand, and suffered his servants to show her party out of the palace.

Mustang had not removed his hand from her waist, and shook his head at her when she opened her mouth to speak.

"Not yet, they're still following us," he murmured in her ear. She smiled and tucked her arm in his, in a sisterly display of affection. The others wisely held their questions as well, talking slightly too loudly about such frivolous things as they could call to their heads.

It wasn't until their delegation was safely in their own encampment on the grounds of the High Prince that the nobleman's servants slipped away into the shadows and the Amestirans breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Thank you, everyone," Hawkeye said, still keeping her voice low. "It was the only way I could think of to get out of there without a husband."

"Seriously, though, your brother? We don't even look remotely alike, Lieutenant," Mustang grumbled.

"I didn't have a lot of options, sir," she said dryly. "While Havoc might have been a better choice in regards to superficial looks, I didn't want to give him a heart attack by throwing myself in his arms. I was more certain of your playing along with my ruse," she grinned mischievously as Havoc sputtered indignantly, but even he could see the truth of her words.

"Why did it have to be a relative, ma'am?" Fuery asked innocently. "Couldn't you have just told them the truth?"

"I did, at first," she replied. "But their customs are different here. It's unheard of for an unmarried woman to travel without the protection of her male relatives. Since he already knew that I was not married, he assumed I must have a chaperone along with me."

"Really? Even though you're here as a delegate?" Fuery all but squeaked. "But—" Riza just smiled at him.

"You must remember how different their society is from Amestris. Here, women can hold any job they'd like only so long as their male relatives approve. If they travel outside of their homeland, they must be accompanied by a chaperone. They are not permitted to own land, or to vote, and they are not legally able to enter into a contract."

"But he asked you to marry him. That's a contract, right? Wouldn't that be against his country's own rules, then?"

"Well, not exactly. You see, he announced his intentions to enter into negotiations for my hand in marriage with my closest male relative, and asked for a name and address to write. So..."

"So, you offered him a brother." Her colonel's tone was amused, now.

"Well, my only other option would have been to claim you as my betrothed, but in that case he never would have let you into his palace. A fiancé can be bribed or killed, so he might have tried to pay you off first, and arranged for an 'unfortunate accident' to befall you if you chose not to accept. I was unwilling to wait while he tried it. And as custom dictates that he negotiate any contract of marriage with the male relative responsible for me, I improvised," she shrugged.

The others laughed, and privately vowed not to let her out of their sight for the duration of their visit.

Colonel Mustang escorted Hawkeye back to her own small tent as the others set off to inform their host that their missing comrade had been safely restored to them.

"Do I need to post a guard outside to ensure no other over-eager suitors attempt to carry you off?" Mustang asked her, only half-joking.

"I think I'm safe now, sir. No one would dare try anything while I'm under the aegis of the High Prince," she replied. "Interfering with any person under his protection would be an extremely serious insult. Regardless of how he felt _personally_ about my predicament, he'd be obliged to take action to satisfy his honor."

"Ah, I see," Mustang said. And still they lingered together outside of her tent, unwilling to part just yet.

"Thank you again, for your help," she said finally, in a soft voice.

"Of course," he replied at once. "As if I would stand idly by while some spoiled, pampered noble tried to steal you away," he scoffed.

"As if I wouldn't have cheerfully maimed him for abducting me, were we not in the middle of diplomatic negotiations with his country's leaders," Hawkeye retorted. And then she smiled. "Don't tell me you were jealous?"

"Who, me? Never, my dear _sister_," Mustang replied, baring his teeth in a feral grin. "What reason would I have to be jealous?"

"None whatsoever, sir."

* * *

><p><strong>A.N. A nice long chapter this time, to make up for my recent neglect. This one has actually been sitting in my drafts for years, now, along with one or two other abandoned fragments that I will eventually re-purpose for use in this collection :D<strong>

**Major props to anyone who knows where I got the name Ochinstan from! (I'll give you a hint - I borrowed the flowery 'diplomatic' language from the same source.)**

**xoxo Janieshi**


	6. F is for Formal Wear

**F is for Formal Wear**

* * *

><p><em>Formal Wearˈfɔːməl wɛə/ noun - clothing designed for or customarily worn on occasions, such as tuxedos and evening gowns._

* * *

><p>"A 'Black and White' gala?" Colonel Mustang asked, dumbstruck. "With all due respect, sir, you've got to be kidding me."<p>

"Afraid not," General Grumman replied, smirking faintly. "The taxpayers may pay our salaries, but we do rely on the revenue generated from fundraisers like these military balls."

"Rely on—? Don't those funds only go towards the purchase of non-essential equipment?" Mustang argued.

"Yes, 'non-essential equipment' such as up-to-date technology. Do you realize that some of our smaller outposts are still using the same comm systems I operated when I was a cadet?"

"Point taken," Mustang grimaced at the very idea. Those comm systems had been obsolete for decades. No wonder Sergeant Fuery got so twitchy whenever they had missions in remote areas. "I understand the need for proper equipment, sir," he said. "But…are you really willing to prostitute your subordinates for the cause?"

"Well, not _literally_, of course," Grumman protested. "Unless one of those wealthy older women makes you an offer you can't refuse," he amended, hiding a smile at the horrified look on Mustang's face. "Some of them are quite good-looking, I can assure you. And I know more than a few who would jump at the chance to seduce the infamous Hero of Ishval."

Mustang groaned, but managed to avoid slamming his head against his superior's desk.

"You're making attendance mandatory, aren't you?" It wasn't really a question. Mustang had known as soon as the old man brought it up that he'd be ordered to attend.

"Only for the State Alchemists," Grumman confirmed cheerfully. "Er, State Alchemists over the age of eighteen, that is, so our young friend Fullmetal is off the hook this time. But we certainly want all of our other well-known faces out there; show you off a bit."

"Age limit, huh? There goes my only chance of entertainment," Mustang grumbled. If he was being forced to play nice with the rich and famous, he would've at least liked the chance to make the shrimp miserable in turn.

"You may, however, choose one other member of your team to share in your misery—" Grumman was saying.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye," Mustang interjected, perking up. Grumman snorted.

"—_except_ for First Lieutenant Hawkeye," he continued serenely, as though Mustang hadn't spoken. Mustang's face fell. "Her skills will be more useful in another capacity," Grumman explained. "Plus, we need a few more unattached gentlemen in attendance. There'll be several wealthy widows and neglected matriarchs who might be more easily persuaded to loosen their purse strings if they're properly attended to by handsome young men."

"I didn't choose the members of my team for their personal charms," Mustang remarked dryly.

He was having a hard time picturing _any_ of them flirting with or flattering the kind of guests likely to be at this accursed gala. Honestly, Hawkeye was the only one who'd even stand a chance, with her proven ability to act like an empty-headed bit of fluff when the occasion called for subterfuge. And her poker face was nigh on legendary.

"Fair enough," Grumman conceded. "Yet each of your men possesses various attributes that would arguably appeal to this crowd, if only as a novelty."

"I'm not sure I follow," Mustang frowned.

"Well, Second Lieutenant Breda has a rather dry wit and a tendency to speak his mind plainly, which would be a definite departure from the sycophantic obeisance the members of our guest list are so accustomed to. His candor might be a refreshing change for them."

"If it didn't cause a scene," Mustang argued. "Breda doesn't sugarcoat _anything_. Some unsuspecting woman will try fishing for a compliment on her dress or her jewels or what have you, and he'll end up insulting the lady. And probably get himself thrown out on his ass for his trouble."

Grumman laughed.

"All right, then, what about your young sergeant? He has the sort of baby-faced freshness that makes people like him on sight, and although he's a bit quiet, he certainly needn't say much. A lot of older women go for the innocent and naïve type. Or there's your warrant officer. Falman, isn't it? He's extremely intelligent, which could potentially be an asset at a fundraising event like this…he could cite all sorts of facts and figures supporting our need for better and faster technology."

Mustang thought of Fuery's stuttering shyness around people he didn't know well, and Falman's distinct discomfort in social situations. And an odd sort of protectiveness welled up in his chest.

"I don't know..." he said slowly, tapping his fingers on the desk. "Perhaps Lieutenant Havoc would be a better choice. I don't think he'd mind being fawned over as much as the others would. And I suppose he has an unpolished sort of charm about him."

"Ah, yes, he's the one with a string of failed relationships, isn't he?" Grumman asked. "Clearly he's alluring enough to draw them in, even if he can't always keep them. He's a good-looking lad, too; an excellent specimen of the 'All-Amestrian Hero' type," he mused.

Mustang opened his mouth to ask what that was supposed to mean, but closed it just as quickly, as he realized that he probably didn't want to know.

"I guess I'd better go and break it to him," he said instead, rising.

"Oh, and Mustang? Just one other thing," Grumman said, a little sheepishly. "The Black and White Ball...it's also a masquerade."

"Of course it is," Mustang sighed.

* * *

><p><em>The evening of the ball<em>

"Have mercy, Havoc, I'm begging you," Mustang moaned.

"For the last time, Colonel, I'm not going to shoot you! Not even _non-fatally_!" Havoc hissed at him. "Not only would Lieutenant Hawkeye murder me when she found out, but then I'd have to go in there all by myself!"

Mustang mumbled something under his breath about being trotted out like a show pony and fiddled with the simple black domino mask he'd chosen to wear with his perfectly tailored tux. Havoc's mask was nearly identical, although he had worn a handsome three piece suit in lieu of a tuxedo.

"Hey, at least you look good in this formal wear crap," Havoc said resentfully, tugging at the starched collar of his white dress shirt. "I should never have listened to Breda; this monkey suit looks ridiculous on a guy like me."

Mustang smiled a little at that.

"You actually clean up quite nicely, Second Lieutenant," he said. "Those rich old bats will be all over you."

"Yippie," Havoc said dryly. Mustang's grin widened. For a moment there, Havoc had sounded exactly like Lieutenant Hawkeye.

"You'll do fine," he said soothingly. "Just be polite, smile a lot, and pretend that everything they say is fascinating."

"Easier said than done," Havoc groaned. Mustang clapped a hand on his shoulder, empathetic. Then he straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and faced the door with all the dignity he could muster.

"Into the breach," he murmured. At his side, Havoc sighed heavily, and reached for the door.

"My, my, could that possibly be the renowned _Flame_ Alchemist?" a husky female voice said from behind them. Havoc stiffened, but Mustang turned to face the new arrival with his suave and charming persona firmly in place.

"And here I thought the point of donning a mask was to render the wearer unidentifiable, if only for one night," he said silkily.

The woman, who wore a low-cut gown of rustling black silk, simpered and coyly adjusted her jewel encrusted mask. In doing so, she afforded Mustang a good look at the signet ring she wore, which he recognized at once as belonging to an influential businessman he'd met in passing.

"Although I must say, guessing which face is concealed by which mask _is_ part of the fun," he added. "Don't you agree, Mrs. Holmwood?"

"I doubt someone as famous as the Hero of Ishval could remain anonymous for long," she said, beaming. "But however did you recognize _me_, my dear boy?"

"You and your husband have been all over the society pages in recent years, madam. I'd know you anywhere," he lied, winking. "Most unfortunately, these masks not only fail to fully conceal one's identity, but they also deprive me of the chance to admire your renowned beauty up close."

"Oh my goodness, you really are as charming as they all say," the second woman tittered, hiding her face behind the black sequined mask that matched her black sequined dress.

"Are you ladies unattended this evening?" Mustang asked, turning slightly to include other middle-aged woman, who was less stout though no horse-faced than her extremely wealthy friend.

"My husband is away on business," Mrs. Holmwood replied coquettishly. "So I convinced my dear Miss Harker to come along in his place."

"Then please, allow Second Lieutenant Havoc and myself to escort you ladies inside," Mustang said, offering his arm to Mrs. Holmwood.

Belatedly and a little less naturally, Havoc imitated his colonel, offering an arm to Miss Harker. In spite of Havoc's stiffness, both women were charmed, and they cooed and preened as the 'handsome young gentlemen' steered them indoors.

For the better part of the next hour, Mustang charmed and sweet-talked and buttered up as many of the spoiled filthy rich as he had the misfortune to come across. Tiresome work, but he wouldn't deny that he was very good at it, and he made sure to drop plenty of hints about how hardworking and woefully underfunded their rural outposts were these days.

He had at least managed to avoid the dance floor. Havoc was not so lucky, having been dragged there nearly the moment he entered by a heavy-set redhead dressed in a tight white frock liberally studded with rhinestones.

Mustang chanced a look around the ballroom as he snagged a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, finally spotting his subordinate dancing with a determined-looking brunette. She was probably old enough to be his mother, but she had a fantastic figure, and Havoc seemed to be enjoying himself. At least a little.

Just as Mustang wondered when General Grumman was going to make an appearance, he spotted the older man standing on the opposite side of the room. Better to be _seen_ before he tried to make a break for it, Mustang thought grimly, and he downed his champagne.

As he slowly made his way towards his commander's group, he realized that the General was accompanied by a much younger woman, whose arm was tucked through his quite possessively.

"And just who the hell is _she_?" Mustang thought, staring somewhat shamelessly. "She's less than half his age, the sly old dog!"

Whoever the young lady was, she had a lovely hourglass figure, with flared hips in pleasing proportion to a generous bust and a slender waistline. She was dressed in a short-sleeved white cheongsam, vaguely reminiscent of a Xinegese bridal costume. But her hair (loose curls pinned up and away from her face) was a delicate corn-silk blonde, suggesting Amestrian heritage. The floor-length skirt was slit to the middle of her thigh, revealing long, well-toned legs accentuated by a pair of lethal stiletto heels. Sadly, nearly two-thirds of her face was concealed by an ornate mask in white and gold, leaving only her lips and chin exposed.

As Mustang swiftly cataloged her various attributes, Grumman and his lady friend moved away from the cluster of people they'd been speaking to, and Grumman caught sight of him.

"Ah, Mustang, my boy! There you are," the general greeted him with a foxy little smile. The young woman turned her head in Mustang's direction as well, and her lips (painted a deep rosy pink) curved very slightly upwards. Intrigued, Mustang drew closer. Why did her smile seem so familiar?

"Good evening, sir. Miss," he said, acknowledging the woman.

"Elizabeth, dear, this is Colonel Roy Mustang," Grumman said. "Mustang, I believe I've occasionally mentioned my granddaughter?"

"Your granddaughter? Yes, of course," Roy said, smoothly concealing his surprise. Elizabeth was far more attractive than the woman he'd pictured each time Grumman had alluded to the existence of a granddaughter. If _this_ was the woman Grumman kept teasing him about…"It's a pleasure, Miss Grumman," he added.

The woman smiled and offered him her hand, but didn't speak. He had the disconcerting impression that she was laughing at him. Meanwhile, Grumman was eyeing something over Mustang's left shoulder.

"I see Lieutenant Havoc has had no end of willing dance partners," he remarked coyly. "Personally I don't care for the exercise, but the ladies certainly seem to enjoy it. In fact, Elizabeth was just expressing a desire to dance, weren't you, dear?"

"Would you allow me the honor?" Mustang said at once, with his most charming smile.

Never mind that Grumman was clearly trying to throw them together, without even an attempt at subtlety. Roy couldn't let such a golden opportunity go to waste.

Elizabeth's lips parted, but before she could demur (or outright protest), her grandfather gave her an encouraging little nudge in Mustang's direction.

"Wonderful! Roy is an excellent dancer, my dear, you shan't be disappointed," he said, winking. "You kids have fun!"

Elizabeth turned her head to shoot her grandfather what was probably a very dirty look, but she allowed Mustang to lead her to the dance floor without a word.

As Mustang took her hand in his, he realized that she was keeping her face slightly averted from his, and a tiny kernel of suspicion took root. But as the music swelled, the chance for conversation was lost, and he focused his attention on the dance.

Elizabeth was an elegant dancer, her movements sure and graceful. She responded to Roy's gentle guidance as though they'd danced together before, and that niggling feeling in the back of his mind grew. The foxtrot segued into a waltz, and more than one head turned when they glided past, each equally conscious that they danced very well together.

As the song drew to an end, Mustang carefully maneuvered their steps so that they ended up near the open door that led outside. There was just _something_ about this woman…he was dying to have a private conversation with her, and that would never happen on the dance floor.

But right as he was about to suggest a stroll through the gardens (which were romantically lit by paper lanterns), he spotted Havoc being drawn in that very direction by his brunette lady-friend. Elizabeth noticed as well, and raised a hand to her mouth to hide a gentle laugh.

"Uh-oh. Do you think my subordinate needs rescuing?" Mustang asked his companion, teasingly. She shook her head, still smiling. "No, he seems content, doesn't he?" Mustang laughed. "I'm glad. I was worried that he'd be miserable at this little shindig. To be perfectly honest, I would've preferred to have my First Lieutenant here with me tonight, but your grandfather insisted I choose one of my male teammates."

Elizabeth titled her head in an inquiring sort of way, which seemed oddly familiar….but, no, it couldn't be.

Could it?

"Apparently he was hoping to stack the deck with a few eligible bachelors," Mustang confided, steering Elizabeth casually out into the garden with a hand on the small of her back. As they made their way along the lamp-lit path, he explained how the general had weighed the various attributes of his subordinates, from the appeal of a socially awkward bookworm like Falman to the innocent baby-panda look of Fuery.

"And while Havoc does manage to pull off the evening wear, I'm quite sure Hawkeye's costume would have eclipsed his efforts, and outshone most of the women here as well. Besides, I'd have liked for her to have the chance to let her hair down a little," he added, chancing a glance at his companion to gauge her reaction.

Her lips were quirked in a small, mysterious little smile, and Mustang's heart stuttered in his chest.

He knew that smile. Didn't he? He saw it so rarely these days...

_My granddaughter,_ Grumman's voice echoed in his memory. There was no _way_ this woman was really…but Grumman might have been lying. What reason did he have to lie outright, though? Even if it were some sort of ruse, surely he trusted Colonel Mustang enough to explain the reasoning behind it. So why would he have said she was…? But no! He was acting as if Grumman was really her –no, it was ridiculous. How could he even entertain the idea? It was completely impossible!

Except that it wasn't.

"Your costume is very well chosen," Mustang remarked casually, as they passed slowly beneath a string of particularly bright paper lanterns. "You look like a bride."

Again, that enigmatic smile. And then, _finally_, she spoke.

"The dress was my grandfather's idea, in fact," she admitted.

And when he heard her voice, a thrill ran down Mustang's spine. Not so impossible, after all.

"Oh?" he managed, trying to hide his overjoyed surprise.

"For several years, now, he's been trying to convince me to find myself a husband and settle down," she added, smirking. "I agreed to the dress on the condition that I be allowed to choose the accompanying mask."

At some point, Mustang hardly knew when, their walk had slowed to a complete stop. He took the opportunity to lean into her personal space, on the pretext of examining her intricate mask more closely. Along the top, where the edge of mask rested against her hairline, the thin filaments of decorative metal curved into a delicate pattern that resembled a tiara.

"Have you figured it out, yet?" she asked softly, tilting her face up to look into his eyes.

"Of course," Mustang murmured. Reaching out, he ran one forefinger over the gilded design at the pinnacle of her mask. "The White Queen. I ought to have guessed at once."

"For a moment there, I thought I could still win," Lieutenant Hawkeye replied with a gentle laugh.

"Win?" Mustang echoed, dumbfounded.

"The general and I had a bet," Hawkeye explained. "I was certain you wouldn't recognize me in this costume, if we happened to cross paths tonight. And he was certain that you _would_. Although, I believe he cheated by arranging for us to dance together," she mused.

"He's not exactly known for playing fair," Mustang chuckled.

"Maybe I can still argue my case. When _did_ you realize it was me?" Hawkeye asked, tilting her head slightly.

"I'm ashamed to admit I wasn't entirely sure until you spoke," he confessed. "But I started to _suspect_ when I got you out onto the dance floor."

"Aren't you supposed to claim you'd know me anywhere?" she teased.

"In my defense, I couldn't see your eyes properly, since you kept turning your head away. And I've never seen you wear your hair like this," he protested, gently tweaking a soft blonde curl. In a slightly lower voice, he added: "And it's been a _very_ long time since I last saw you wear a dress."

Hawkeye felt the heat of her blush, and prayed that it wouldn't be noticeable in the semi-darkness.

"I suppose you have a point," she said, touching the ends of her curls self-consciously. She was pleased that her voice sounded steady, even if her pulse was much faster than usual. "Catalina was thrilled when I asked her to help me get ready."

Mustang laughed aloud.

"I'll just bet she was. Didn't she come tonight, then?"

"Can you pick _her_ out of a crowd?" Hawkeye challenged, gesturing toward the brightly lit hall ahead of them. Their slow circuit of the gardens had taken them around to the opposite side of the building, and a little more personal space between them would probably be a good idea right about now, she thought.

"Unless she's introduced to me under a false name and wearing a mask covering most of her face," Mustang mumbled in a disgruntled way.

But he obeyed, following Hawkeye over to one of the windows so that they could observe the crowd indoors without having to re-enter the building just yet. Now that he had her to himself, he didn't particularly feel like giving her back.

Scanning the sea of black and white silks, satin and gauzes adorned by sequins, feathers and jewels, Roy pursed his lips in thought.

"There; next to the bar," he said triumphantly after a moment. Hawkeye blinked in surprise. "In the black dress with the feathery things along the skirt," he went on. "Which, by the way, makes a perfect foil for your costume – dark, frothy and daring to your classic, sleek white."

"Should I be offended that you recognized _her_ from across a crowded room but couldn't be sure of _me_ when I was standing right in front of you?" Hawkeye asked, only half-joking. Mustang drew her arm through his, gently leading her back into the garden again.

"Catalina is much more..._exuberant_ than you are," he said, a little defensively. "She stands out in a crowd. Plus, her mask is even smaller than mine and practically transparent. And then there's the fact that the two of you are the youngest women here tonight. It really wasn't much of a challenge."

Hawkeye was still frowning slightly. Impulsively, Mustang caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips.

"I meant to say so earlier," he murmured against her knuckles. "You look beautiful tonight."

"Sir," she admonished, looking around quickly to be sure no one was nearby.

"There's no need to call me 'sir.' Is there, '_Elizabeth_?'"

"Someone else here might've recognized me," she retorted, swatting him lightly.

"You worry far too much," he replied. But he released her hand, allowing her to tuck it back into the crook of his arm as they resumed their walk. "It's not exactly common knowledge that Grumman has a granddaughter, let alone that she's in the military," he added after a moment.

"_Precisely_."

Mustang shot her a quick look. And cursed the damned mask that hid her expression from him.

"He _was_ serious, wasn't he?" he asked, beginning to doubt himself again. "This isn't some elaborate ruse Grumman threw together just because he wanted you on bodyguard duty for the evening - right?"

"No, it's not a ruse," Riza replied, smiling faintly. "Technically Catalina is on guard duty tonight. Although it looks as though she's busy guarding the bar from wealthy single men at the moment," she chuckled.

"Taking one for the team. A noble endeavor," Roy quipped, smiling in spite of himself. "So…why didn't either of you tell me before now?"

"Honestly? I thought you already knew," Riza replied softly. "It wasn't until he actually introduced me as his granddaughter that I realized he'd never told you about our relationship."

"No, _that_ I would have remembered," Roy chuckled.

They walked on in silence for another moment as Mustang processed this new information.

"Is it something either of you prefer to be kept under wraps?" he finally asked, delicately. Hawkeye just smiled.

"No, not really. We just found it more convenient to keep our personal and professional lives separate whenever possible."

Meaning that they each preferred she never be put into a position where she could be used against him, or vice versa, and that each would still be able to freely gather information the other might not have access to. If no one knew of their connection, then no one would suspect familial partiality on either of their parts.

_It's as if Grumman has been taking lessons from my aunt,_ Mustang thought.

"And the pseudonym?" he asked. Hadn't she gone by 'Elizabeth' the time they'd worked with Madame Christmas too? Grumman must have gotten that idea from her as well.

"Makes it easier for me to play the part he needs me to play at functions like this," Riza explained softly. "The name 'Elizabeth Grumman' is less conspicuous than my own." She studied his profile for a moment, calculating. "You must have other questions," she prompted at last.

They both knew she wouldn't have even _alluded_ to his curiosity unless she was willing to indulge it.

"More than I can fully articulate at the moment," he acknowledged. Was this a one-time offer? If he let this moment pass, would she ever give him the answers he sought? "I'm not keeping you from your duties, am I?" he asked lightly as the building loomed into view again.

"I think I can be spared for the space of another dance or two," she smiled, understanding at once what he hadn't said aloud. "Colonel? I'm sure I don't have to explain this to you, but…you know that if you _did_ have any questions for me, you've only to ask."

Strange, really, the way Hawkeye's gentle smile made Mustang feel as if he'd downed several bottles of champagne rather than a single glass.

"Well, then," he replied, giddy and breathless all at once. "Let's begin with this question: would you like to dance?"

"I'd love to," Hawkeye murmured.

Mustang's mouth curved into his customary smirk, but his eyes softened in the way they only ever did when he looked at her.

"After you, then, '_Elizabeth_,'" he said, placing his hand on the small of her back. As they ascended the steps that led back into the dance hall, his hand drifted slightly southward.

"Careful, Colonel Mustang," Hawkeye said warningly. "Whatever would my grandfather say if he saw you now?"

"My apologies," Mustang chuckled, and moved his wandering hands to a less precarious position.

Unbeknownst to either one, General Grumman smiled approvingly at them from his place in the shadows.

"It's only a matter of time, my dear," he murmured, taking note of Hawkeye's coy smile and Mustang's smug answering grin. "I'll have him as a grandson-in-law yet!"

* * *

><p><strong>A.N. This is just one of many ideas I have for how Mustang figures out who Hawkeye's granddad is, so I suppose we can argue this one is on the AUish side :D <strong>

**Dedicated to The Consulting Alchemist, who requested "F is for Formal Wear: Riza and Roy see each other in formal wear for the first time at some military gala/party." I really don't know how these prompts keep running away with me like this...But I hope you enjoyed it, anyway, my dear!**

**Anyhow, I'm finally getting into the heart of my pile of requests, now. Next up will be "G is for Game," as requested by narutofan96sasuke. A little sneak peek to tide you over:**

_**"Hawkeye, unsurprisingly, caught on first. **_

_**'A drinking game, sir?' she asked incredulously, raising her eyebrows. Mustang shrugged. **_

_**'Does anyone have a better idea?'" **_

**More to come soon!**

**xoxo Janieshi**


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